Where the Shadows Are
by The Peridot Shade
Summary: Character studies of two characters who never met, but whose fates were similar and loved ones were the same. Míriel, who faded in Aman after the birth of Fëanor. Fingolfin (Nolofinwë), whose honor led to his death in combat with Morgoth. Contains frank discussion of depression, major character death, and other possible triggers.
1. Míriel–My Greatest Work is Finished

AN: So, if you haven't noticed, it's been a very long time since I've updated anything. That is due to a severe bout of depression that had me hospitalized for four days and recovering for the better part of a year. I will not be updating The Many-Named again–I have lost my inspiration and will likely be taking it down in the near future. I started it during one of the times that contributed to my poor health, actually, so I cannot bear to continue it. I am willing to send my notes to anyone who wants to adopt it. Pass In Time, Dreams Do Not will be finished someday, but it will definitely be a very slow rate of progress.

This story is a result of my trying to come to terms with my experience with depression and describing it in a way that would make sense to other people, who may not have experienced it the same way–or at all. This story does contain **description of suicidal reasoning**, **depression**, **angst**, and **other possible triggers**. This is not a story to read if you're already feeling down. That said, it is an accurate depiction of how some people experience depression, drawing on my own experience and those of my aunt and grandfather. It is, of course, fictionalized to fit into Tolkien's world and personalized for the characters. If you are not very familiar with the Silmarillion (and are reading this for some reason), you may not understand the references to various people, places, and events, but these are two character studies and the inner conflict is the important part.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion. Obviously.

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><p>It started when she was a small child. As other children would laugh and play, snatching what joy they could amidst the terrors of the dark, Míriel would sit quietly and watch, not understanding how they could muster such energy to combat the ever-present gloom. Míriel sat always in the corners, to the side, furthest from others. In the coldest hours, she huddled with her neighbors by the fire, seeking warmth that never quite reached her core. She was soft-spoken, often overlooked by the adults because her needs were subtler, her cries softer, her pleas quieter. She was haunted by foreboding, terrified of the ever-present darkness. Always were they hunted, and she felt it the most keenly. Míriel looked to the future and saw only darkness. For a time, the stars were her only comfort, but even that solace couldn't break the despair that lay over her heart.<p>

Finwë blazed into her life like a comet. His passion for his people, his hope of a better life for the Eldar––she was mesmerized, swept up unwittingly into his life, his dreams. Suddenly, it didn't matter that she was always cold, always tired, always filled with fear. Míriel followed Finwë with every ounce of her being, followed him all the way to Aman, where they were wed.

Aman was beautiful. The light was so new to Míriel, who had known only the far-off lamps and the cold stars. Here there was no omnipresent darkness, no stalking terrors. Here she could find peace.

All was well for a time. Míriel poured her heart into her art, and the Eldar praised the work of her hands. But soon the praise was not enough, and Míriel was dissatisfied. The words of her kin seemed hollow, without meaning. Surely, she thought, the product of my labors is not so wondrous as they proclaim. Am I not the same fëa they disregarded, the one they overlooked? This praise must be false, for if I am truly so talented, how could they have not noticed me? And shadows grew in Míriel's heart.

Then she conceived a child, and they told her how fortunate she was, how joyful she must be! But Míriel's thoughts grew darker with each passage of the light of the Trees. These words also must be false, she said to herself, for I feel no joy, nor even peace. An emptiness grew in her heart, greater than any she'd felt even in Beleriand. The sole comfort to her was the child growing in her womb, and it was to him alone that she spoke of her misgivings. Míriel looked to the future and knew she would not live to see her child fully grown.

As the day of birthing drew nearer, Míriel began to take no joy in her life. All the bright colors and sweet scents of Aman grew dim and faded. Food gave her no pleasure, but she ate for her son. Waking each day grew more difficult, until finally she rose not at all from her bed.

Then her son was born, and never had she felt so alive as when the labor pains tore through her. Her child, the only of her creations in whom she could feel pride, her son was here, placed in her arms and held to her breast even as the emptiness inside her grew. No longer had she worth, for her greatest masterpiece was complete–she had nothing more to give.

And so Míriel never rose from her birthing-bed, refusing all food and comforts save one: to gaze upon her son. She clung to Fëanàro's image, hoping to last a little longer for his sake. But the shadows in her heart engulfed her, and Míriel departed for Lórien, where she fell into an endless sleep.

And when the Valar approached her bodiless fëa with an ultimatum, she pondered all that had come before, all the joys of her life laid against the sorrows. And, remembering the darkness, the emptiness, the cold–Míriel chose to remain formless.


	2. Nolofinwë–In Service of Others

Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion.

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><p>It started when he was a small child. As the children of his father's vassals ran and played at being knights, Nolofinwë marveled at their carefree laughter. His days were spent with tutors, learning of his heritage, his responsibilities. And always, always, was he compared to Fëanàro. His half-brother's name and deeds were ever on the tongues of his tutors, his father, his friends, even his sisters, brother, and mother. No deed of Nolofinwë's own was praised without mention of Fëanàro. It was never cruel or ill-intentioned, but the Noldor could not seem to view Nolofinwë as anything but an extension of his half-brother. Nolofinwë's successes were thought to be inevitable, for how could one who shared Fëanàro's blood be anything less than brilliant? His failures prompted admonishments to better follow his half-brother's example. Yet Nolofinwë could not bring himself to blame the Crown Prince. How could Fëanàro be anything other than brilliant and passionate beyond measure? Nolofinwë was equally in awe of his half-brother and every moment of Fëanàro's attention–no matter how dismissive–was a thing to be savored. But Nolofinwë knew he could never measure up to the standard of Fëanàro's brilliance, and his heart felt just a little emptier.<p>

As Nolofinwë grew and learned, he realized that he must make something of himself separate from the shadow cast by Fëanàro. So he tried his hand at many arts, hoping to find something to ease the growing ache in his chest. It was in the craft of ruling that he shone. All the knowledge of public opinion, of strategy, of the greater good, of honor, seemed to slip into place inside his mind. He began to attend his father's councils, never contributing but always watching. Nolofinwë began to see the patterns of statecraft in ways he'd never experienced for any other branch of knowledge. The idea that he could help people, that he could live his life in service to others–it soothed his empty heart. So he sought out problems, offered solutions, and began to plan how best he may serve his people.

Once his coming of age had passed, Nolofinwë approached his father for permission to speak in council. Finwë was momentarily startled, expressing his disbelief that Nolofinwë did not share Fëanàro's impatience with politics. In that moment, a little of Nolofinwë's trust was broken–for if his father could not view him as his own person, who would?–but he spoke through the pain, his passion growing until Finwë could only stare at him in dawning awe. Nolofinwë had never felt so alive as when speaking on behalf of his people, and in those moments his fëa shone as brightly as Fëanàro's ever could. But nothing could outshine the Silmarils that soon would inspire the awe of the Eldar of Aman.

For a time, Nolofinwë was content in his service to the Noldor, but soon darkness grew once more in his heart. Melkor's freedom struck trepidation into Nolofinwë, for all he could see was death for the Noldor when he gazed upon the renegade Vala. So he sought to better the lives of his people so that they might have greater joy before the coming sorrows. Even his wife Anairë and his children could not fully shake the shadow from his mind.

Nolofinwë found himself dependent on his service to others to give him worth, give him meaning. The Noldor loved him, but only for what he did for them, and not for himself as he was. Fëanàro's greatest works had captured the fascination of their people, and Nolofinwë was left in Fëanàro's shadow once more, distinguishable only for the service he rendered. So when Fëanàro made swords and stirred talk of leaving Aman, Nolofinwë feared for his people and went swiftly to his father with his concerns, uncaring of incurring Fëanàro's wrath. And in the moments when his half-brother held a sword to his throat, Nolofinwë saw the shadow of his death in the far future, and knew that this was the beginning of his doom.

Fëanàro's exile was bittersweet to Nolofinwë. He grieved for his half-brother's absence, but was relieved for the sake of the Noldor, knowing that their coming suffering was as yet put off. He blossomed in his role as regent, but wept that his father's love for Fëanàro was greater than Finwë's love of the rest of their kin, including Nolofinwë himself. Fëanàro's return was equally bittersweet, but division would not serve their people, so Nolofinwë vowed to follow the Crown Prince as a younger brother should. The death of their father, the theft of the Silmarils, the Oath, the Kinslaying, the Doom–throughout it all, Nolofinwë felt guilt that he could not spare his people the pain of exile. But he could not turn back, even when Fëanàro abandoned him and his people in Araman. Honor, which was the only solace he had left, spurred Nolofinwë to keep his oath to Fëanàro and to seek a better life for his vassals, even as he wept to see his people's suffering on the Helcaraxë. His honor grew ever more rooted in his heart, until it began to twist his compassion and nobility into self-sacrifice. He gave a large part of his rations to the weakest of his people, he helped pull elves from the ice at great peril to himself, and his people loved him for it. Each death was a failure, and Elenwë's fall cemented Nolofinwë's guilt.

Reaching Beleriand did not ease the pain. Fëanàro's death, Maitimo's capture and return one-handed–Nolofinwë knew he had failed his half-brother. But reconciliation was what was best for the Noldor, so he accepted the High Kingship and feasted his subjects. He worked tirelessly for the good of his people and the result was a long period of peace.

But it was not peaceful for Nolofinwë. Guilt weighed him down, prompting him to give ever more of himself to his people, until he grew empty inside, unable even to take joy in serving his subjects.

Then came the Dagor Bragallach, and Nolofinwë knew he had utterly failed his people. If he could not protect the Noldor, what worth did he have? If his best efforts to serve his people were not enough, they deserve a better ruler than he. So, honor driving him to perform one last act for his people, Nolofinwë saddled his horse and rode forth to cry out his challenge to Morgoth. And he was answered.

Throughout the duel that followed, Nolofinwë felt more alive than ever before. With each blow he landed and each blow he took, he could feel the guilt dissipate. As he fell, defeated, Nolofinwë looked up to see death descending upon him. And he smiled.


End file.
